


Tempest

by TabooMonster123



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, 憂国のモリアーティ | Yuukoku no Moriarty | Moriarty the Patriot (Manga)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Gross Indecency Laws, M/M, POV Outsider, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28952211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TabooMonster123/pseuds/TabooMonster123
Summary: Over two decades after William Moriarty falls, John must explain a surprising secret to his son.Or: how to tell your child that you were friends with a serial killer.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson (Yuukoku no Moriarty), Sherlock Holmes/William James Moriarty (Yuukoku no Moriarty)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 99





	Tempest

**Author's Note:**

> I had to restrain myself from using “ejaculated” as a synonym for “exclaimed” multiple times throughout this fic despite Sir Doyle using it himself in the Original Sherlockian Canon. Be proud of me.
> 
> I imply, but do not state outright, that Liam is dead in this fic (as far as John knows). It’s really up to you, the reader, to decide whether he survived Reichenbach.
> 
> Please enjoy the fic :)

“A letter for you, John, dear,” said Mary Watson, dusting her coat off in the entry. “Looks to be from your publisher again.”

“That man,” muttered John. “I’ve told him a thousand times I’m not interested.” He stood, stretched, and ambled through the doorway to meet his wife in the hall.

“What are they asking for, again?” John’s son, Samuel, was sat in the armchair, surrounded by an array of textbooks.

“Oh, the usual, I’d imagine,” said Mary. “Right then, I’m popping off again. I’m meeting Louisa for luncheon.”

“Give Mrs. Price my regards.” John saw her off and closed the front door, grabbing the letter opener on his way back into the sitting room. “Requesting a new foreword, use of Lord Moriarty’s given name, photographs for special twentieth anniversary edition—oh, for goodness’ sake!” he exclaimed, making Samuel jump. “He says he’s written to Sherlock about a possible epilogue—he’s bitten off more than he can chew with that one!”

Samuel frowned. “Why? Doesn’t Mr. Holmes approve of your books about him?”

John snorted. “Sherlock’s opinion of my writings is mixed at best, though he enjoys the attention to his casework. Out of all my books, _The Final Problem_ is the one he’s supported the most, but that doesn’t mean he wants anything to do with it.”

“That seems contradictory.”

“I suppose from the outside it is. I want nothing to do with it either, mind—I’m giving all its royalties to charity.”

Samuel sputtered around in shock. “That must be a massive amount of money! And to give it all away!”

“It’s not nearly as much as you’re thinking, and we have enough money, regardless. No, I simply refuse to take what I see as blood money.”

Confused, Samuel asked, “Blood money?”

John paused, considering his son carefully. “You’re past old enough to know, now, I suppose,” he muttered to himself, getting back up and moving around to pull something down from the bookshelf. “I only hope you don’t think too badly of us for this.”

“For what?” Samuel inquired, but John shook his head and placed a thick album on the side table between them.

“It will be easier simply to show you.” John pulled it open. “Let’s see, we received the camera in autumn, so it should be just at the beginning—ha!” He turned the album around, pushing it towards his son. “There you are: Christmas of 1888.”

It was a small group photograph, taken in what Samuel recognized as the sitting room of Mr. Holmes’s flat. Four people stood along the back: Samuel’s father, a much younger Ms. Hudson, and two men he didn’t recognize. On the short chaise in front of them was Sherlock Holmes, his much shorter hair pulled tightly back and paying far less attention to the camera than the man beside him, whom Samuel also couldn’t place. He wore fine clothes, like the other two, and held his cane across his lap like a rapier. Samuel got the distinct impression of a coiled snake.

Below the photo read the inscription:

_X-mas of ‘88 at 221B, with Albert, William, and Louis James Moriarty._

Samuel stared down at the page while John watched him silently. “Which one’s which?” his son asked, trailing his fingers along the name “Moriarty”.

“Albert and Louis are standing—Albert’s the only one with dark hair, he’s the eldest son—and William is next to Sherlock. I believe this was taken by Inspector Lestrade?” John flipped the page, revealing more images. He pointed to one with a different man speaking with Albert Moriarty. “He was our usual contact with Scotland Yard. Albert did some job for the Crown, as I recall.” He moved his finger over the page. “There’s a better one of Louis. He’s always been camera-shy—” Louis did, in fact, seem more comfortable when unaware he was the subject of photographic scrutiny, his face relaxed as he spoke to the pictured John. “William must have taken that one. Louis never suspected that man of a thing.”

“Should he have?” Samuel asked.

John laughed under his breath. “There was never a need for him to. William told his brothers everything.

“Look, here: this is what I wished to show you.”

On the opposing page, right under John’s finger, was what appeared to be the last photograph from that Christmas. Sherlock Holmes, in his exuberance, was captured gesticulating wildly, glass held precariously with the tips of his fingers. Facing him, holding what must have been Mr. Holmes’s violin, was William Moriarty, but where before he had seemed reptilian in demeanor, here he was nearly human: he wore only his vest and tie, his tophat and jacket discarded somewhere not pictured, with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and a teasing smile inching across his face. Under the photo was written:

 _Professor William J. Moriarty & Sherlock Holmes _ _discussing the mathematical theories of music, loudly._

“More than myself, it was Sherlock whom he befriended. Never did I think Sherlock Holmes could be _suited_ to someone until he met William.”

“He was not the Lord of Crime, then,” Samuel concluded.

“He was.” John sighed. “They all were. William merely took the fall for them, as it were.”

Crestfallen, Samuel looked down at the photograph again before turning the page, lost in thought.

The next pages depicted Baker Street at its most domestic: meal times, Ms. Hudson in the open front door, Sherlock draped over his chaise, disgruntled, and Samuel’s father in the street outside their home, covered in snow and laughing. “Ah, yes—the one time I managed to sneak up on him.”

“Is that why you’re so cheerful?”

“It’s not often you get one over on Sherlock. He’s terrifically difficult to hide from. I still got covered in snow, but that’s more due to his sharper reflexes.”

They turned to the next spread, mouths twitching. The next two photos were of Sherlock and Samuel’s father in their sitting room. One, clearly taken in the late afternoon by the light coming through the windows, portrayed John in the armchair reading while Sherlock lay half-off the chaise, apparently scraping about on his violin in bored despondence. The other, taken from the same angle but a different time of day, showed them switched, John on the chaise with a newspaper spread about him and Sherlock Holmes on the chair, smirking around a cup at what must have been the photographer. The following was written in elegant copperplate script on the same page:

 _Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John H. Watson, in their usual fashion, d_ _rinking their morning swill._

Choking with laughter, Samuel asked, “Who wrote that?”

“That would be William,” John answered, cutting his laughter off abruptly. “As I recall, he gave us that coffee as a gift, and then proceeded to pretend at abject horror when we drank it. Or the closest he got, anyway; his humor was quite dry.”

“Is that… What he was like, then? A bit funny?” Samuel stared at the writing as he spoke, pointedly not looking at this father.

“He could be… More accurately, he was a duplicitous sort, though the finer details of which kinds of secrets he kept from whom varied. He never lied outright to those he was closest to, but he would let us draw our own conclusions so long as they suited him. Always polite, never quite warm—and unfailingly kind.”

“It’s difficult to reconcile the man you describe with a known murderer,” Samuel said slowly.

John snorted. “Yes, I suspect that’s part of what so fascinated Sherlock—a response William encouraged.”

Staring at his father in shock, Samuel said, “You mean to tell me Mr. Holmes knew Moriarty was the Lord of Crime, and Moriarty _knew_ that he knew in turn, and _still they remained friends?”_

“I know it sounds mad,” John said. “And it was, a bit. But you’ve got the right of it.”

_“Why?”_

John considered his words carefully. “I think, on some level, Sherlock was entirely too pleased to find the killer he’d been hunting for months in the one person whose intellect he knew could rival his own. On another…” He sighed. “They were both all too aware their time together was limited, and so were desperate to make the most of it.” After a pause, he added, “William used that tension to position Sherlock right where he wanted him, and I’ve never quite forgiven him for that.”

Silence fell between them, father and son each lost in his own thoughts. Samuel examined that last photograph, his mind whirling in circles. Mr. Holmes, in his mischievous joy, was undoubtedly familiar, but what struck him more was the look of contentedness on his younger father’s face; caught in a war of wills and bloodshed between two behemoths, and he sat quietly reading his paper.

“Did you know?” Samuel asked.

“... I was in denial,” John hedged. “For a long time. But yes, as much as I tried to ignore it, the signs were there.” He snorted. “It didn’t help that Sherlock suspected him often and loudly from the very beginning.”

“But he killed people!” Samuel cried. “Nearly a hundred in only a few years—he was a _monster—”_

“No, he wasn’t.”

“How can you say that? How can you defend him when so many died at his hands?”

“I do not defend what he did,” John said firmly. “I’m saying he was a man, and it is dangerous to pretend otherwise.”

“That’s ludicrous!”

“It’s true,” John insisted. "Listen well, my son, for this is the lesson I first learned from the Lord of Crime himself and cemented in the aftermath of his death: all those monsters of dark and shadow, which we imagine lying in wait in narrow alleys and around sharp corners, are nothing more than men of flesh and bone, of joy and fear, and no matter how hard they try to convince you otherwise you must _never_ forget."

"Why does it matter?" Samuel demanded. "If what they do is so horrible, what does it matter what they are?"

"Because there may come a day when you will love someone you must condemn in the same breath. Or perhaps you'll find that, despite your best efforts and your strongest convictions, you yourself are the monster—and you must go on living anyway."

“I don’t understand how learning of his crimes didn’t stop you from—” He cut himself off.

John hummed. “I’ve found love, in my experience, to be less of a choice you make and more a matter of merciless circumstance.”

Swallowing, Samuel said, “When you say you loved him…”

“He was a brother, of sorts,” John said. “Though I do not have the words to explain it better than that.” Reaching over, John flipped through several pages in quick succession. Samuel caught a few glimpses of old wallpaper, faded furniture, and what looked like a rose garden before his father found a page with a newspaper clipping, the headline in bold print reading:

**NOBLE FAMILY’S GENEROUS DONATION**

MORIARTY CONTINUES CHARITABLE TRADITION

A single photo depicted all three brothers surrounded by ragged, happy children. Louis watched the camera warily, holding the hand of a tiny thumb-sucker, while Albert and William had both lost their tophats to the crowd. While the eldest brother stood firm, his noble status evident in every straight inch, William eschewed convention entirely. He sat on a narrow bench, book in hand, as he read to a small group of attentive children piled around him, his hat tipping precariously off the tiny head of the little girl standing over his shoulder.

“You said,” Samuel whispered, “that he was kind.”

“Yes. He was polite, of course, and in many ways acted the perfect English nobleman, but I have never met anyone else from high society who would give a beggar the coat off his own back on a foggy night simply because she looked a bit chilled.

“Even his criminal exploits were often done out of a sense of vigilantism—targeting those the Yard could not or would not prosecute. I’m not sure how much evidence he required from his clients to condemn his victims, but for years after the fact it wasn’t unusual for truly horrible crimes to be attributed post-mortem to someone he’d had killed. Sherlock believes _everyone_ William targeted were nobles whose crimes would never be brought to justice, and it’s unclear how many he killed personally.”

“Meaning what?”

“Well, he was more often the orchestrator of those murders than the killer. Each death was either made to appear an accident—and we’re still unsure how many of those we’ve missed—or he cleared the way for his client to enact their own revenge. William is attributed as the killer in very many cases, but that’s simply due to the lack of other suspects we can prove were involved, even if he could not have done it personally.

“But those he saw to himself were often the most heinous of criminals—your serial killers, particularly, and those with a taste for torturing their victims. Those left no one to ‘hire’ the Lord of Crime to help them enact vengeance, so he merely did it himself.”

“Is that why he killed them all, then? A sense of ‘Justice’?”

Before John could answer, a familiar voice cut in: “It was both more and less than that.”

Standing in the doorway to the front hall was Sherlock Holmes in all his bedraggled glory, clutching a crinkled envelope in his fist and a scowl upon his face. “John,” he growled. “Your publisher is a menace. What in God’s name does he mean by sending me a dozen pesky letters?” Ignoring John standing to greet him, he strode over and sunk down into the couch across from Samuel. John sat back down with a huff.

“What was it, then? What was his motive?” Samuel demanded.

“Politics, dear Watson.” Sherlock crossed his legs and leaned backward. “Liam wanted nothing more or less than the complete elimination of the British noble class.”

Samuel mouthed the name “Liam” incredulously while John leaned over to close the photo album, only to be stopped by Sherlock's hand. “May I?” the detective asked. John hesitated only a moment before handing it over. Sherlock flipped through the pages, barely glancing each photograph before moving on.

“If you’re searching for a particular date—”

“No, it merely occurred to me to see if—” he opened the album fully. “John.”

Seeing where Sherlock’s finger pointed, John sucked in a sharp breath, letting it out reluctantly. “Damn.”

“Bastard,” Sherlock agreed.

Glancing nervously between them, Samuel finally dared ask, “What is it now?”

They looked up at him then glanced at each other, an entire silent conversation passing in a moment. “It’s up to you,” John said. “But Sherlock—”

“I know.” To Samuel, he added, “I want your word that nothing I say to you here will leave this room.”

“Why?” Samuel asked warily.

“Samuel,” John reprimanded.

“I cannot say without your word,” Sherlock insisted.

Shaking his head, Samuel replied, “I will always keep your confidences, Uncle, you know that.”

Instead of smiling at the old childhood endearment, Sherlock only said, “I hope so,” and handed him the album.

It was immediately evident which image to focus on. Photographed from behind, and in full color, were Sherlock Holmes and William Moriarty facing a brightly lit window and staring up at a crystal beaker held between their faces. Sherlock’s arm wrapped around Liam’s waist, tucking him close, while William’s hand rested companionably on Sherlock’s shoulder. And there, on his thumb, lay a very familiar ring.

“That’s yours!” Samuel exclaimed as Sherlock fished it out of his shirt.

“Not mine, but its brother.” Pulling the chain over his head, Sherlock handed it across to Samuel, who took it delicately. “Now, tell me what you make of that.”

“It’s lighter than you’d expect for a signet ring,” Samuel murmured, turning it this way and that. “But it doesn’t look hollow, so—hinges!” Sherlock nodded approvingly. “It’s a locket!” Samuel raised a brow at him, and when Sherlock motioned for him to go ahead, pried it open with careful fingers.

All at once, several things fell into place in Samuel’s mind. Inside that locket was not the portrait of a pretty woman—or even, he acknowledged, a handsome man—but a beautiful lock of golden hair.

“You were _lovers,”_ Samuel whispered.

Sherlock said nothing. He held his hand out for the ring, which Samuel shakily placed back in his palm.

“But you knew,” he accused Sherlock. “You knew he was killing people—”

“No, I _suspected,_ and there is a difference,” Sherlock corrected.

_“Still!”_

“I have had precious few friends in my life, Samuel,” he said, “and it has made me a selfish man. I was not about to push someone I was so uniquely suited to out of my life, for any reason.”

“That’s a pretty thing to call gross indecency. You could be _arrested—”_

“I should like to see them try,” said Sherlock, while John growled, “The law is wrong.”

Samuel tried to say something, but his father continued, “And I’ve still not forgiven them for what they did to Oscar.”

“Poor sod,” muttered Sherlock. To Samuel, he said, “I take it you’re not best pleased with me.”

Incredulous, Samuel shook his head, unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I always thought you so devoted to the catching of criminals. To hear that you yourself are one of them—”

“You’ve erred in your reasoning, I’m afraid,” Sherlock said.

“Do enlighten me.”

“You are equating a desire to catch criminals with a reverence towards the law. These are not the same thing. For many they are practically equivalent, but in that case I would have merely joined the Yard and been done with it.”

“You despise the Yard,” Samuel pointed out.

“And for all intents and purposes, they are the law. Besides, I have no interest in rote, obvious police work. If any common man can do it, there’s no point wasting my time on it.”

John rolled his eyes at that but said nothing, accustomed as he was to Sherlock’s obnoxious ego.

“Additionally, you are assuming that, due to the nature of our relationship, I did not want Liam caught. This is not the case.”

“You just wanted to catch him yourself,” John said.

“Precisely!” Sherlock cried, pointing at him gleefully. “The Lord of Crime was the greatest mystery of our time, and he flitted about the edges of my grasp with deft precision. Revealing him, piece by piece and moment by moment, was probably the most fun I’ve had in my life.” He sighed, sinking back into the cushions. “And, of course, the greatest puzzle was how to stop the Lord of Crime while saving Liam.”

“I’m sure I’ve said this to you before,” John turned to his son. “Sherlock, for all that his work aids the law, is thoroughly amoral.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to object, then thought better of it. “Liam was always a better man than I,” he allowed.

“Because he killed people who deserved it?” Samuel asked dubiously.

“Please. No one deserves to be killed.”

“William was good in the sense that his entire purpose in life was the benefit of society and the people around him,” John explained. “Regardless of his methods—William firmly believed that, if he _could_ do something to help someone, then he was morally obligated to do it.”

“And he drew that line of thinking to what was, in his mind, the logical conclusion: destroy those evils the government refuses to, so they may never harm another," Sherlock said, adding, "Whether he had the right to ‘help’ in such a fashion is another question entirely.”

“I doubt it would have occurred to him to ask,” John pointed out. “He was certainly the type to believe one’s responsibility superseded every other dictate.”

Samuel mulled this over. “You say he was kind, but he seems rather militant in his application of the concept.”

Sherlock laughed and laughed while John said, “That certainly fits his philosophy well. Do what you must, if you can, and damn the consequences.”

“A bit more complicated than that, but essentially, yes,” Sherlock chortled.

Humming, John turned to Samuel. “You see now what I meant about becoming a monster?”

Samuel nodded jerkily. “How do you know the right thing to do, then? If even trying can lead you down such a dark path?”

“You don’t,” Sherlock answered, rueful. “That does not mean you mustn't try, of course. Nothing will come of nothing.”

“King Lear,” John murmured.

“Liam always did love his Shakespeare,” Sherlock said.

Overwhelmed, Samuel let their chatter peter out and tried to imagine himself, perhaps not in Sherlock’s position, but in his father’s. Could Samuel have lived in the shadow of such a man as William Moriarty and still cherished what little joy came with him? Or was that joy so great it was worth its inevitable loss?

Somewhere, a clock chimed noon.

“Well,” Sherlock broke the silence. “That should be long enough. Come along, John, I shall require you.”

“Dare I ask why?” John stood, already groping for his walking stick.

“Your publisher should have returned to his office by now and I think it would be prudent to pay him a visit. I should like to meet the man who will mail me such demands without once having met me in person!”

“Well, this should be entertaining.” Already donning his coat, John called to Samuel over his shoulder. “You’ll put that away when you’re done, I trust?”

“Of course,” he said, distracted by that glinting ring and their smiling faces.

It was a long time after they left before Samuel could close the album.

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this fic, “Tempest”, is shortened from the Shakespeare play “the Tempest”, from which Liam’s line “Hell is empty and all the devils are here” during the Baskervilles arc comes from.
> 
> I did a stupid amount of research for this fic and used about a third of it, but as far as i know everything regarding the photos are period-accurate. Christmas parties were actually a thing in England at the time, though I'm pretending they have a good reason for being at 221B instead of the Moriarty Estate. (Secrecy reasons, probably.) So was the use of “X-mas” as a shorthand for “Christmas”, often seen on hideous Victorian Christmas cards. If you have never seen one: google it. Kodak released their first personal camera in 1888, which is something I can totally see Sherlock impulse-buying and then only using once before John adopts it. Color photos were around, though I’ve fudged the probability of that one in particular being in color because there weren’t really at-home processes for developing them. (Sherlock was a chemist, it’s probably fine.) I have no excuse for that photograph of the brothers at the orphanage, please just assume one of them dragged John along for posterity or something.
> 
> There is a whole wikipedia page on the relationship and comparison between math and music ( https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Music_and_mathematics ), which John has miss-identified as a set of theories. John does not do numbers or musical notes.
> 
> The name “Oscar” does, in fact, refer to Oscar Wilde, the author who was charged with gross indecency for homosexual acts, sentenced to ten years’ hard labor, and died in exile in Paris. He and Doyle were contemporaries, and did in fact meet in person at least one time I can recall. And as one of my betas pointed out, this reference implies that Wilde and John Watson & Sherlock Holmes were personal friends, which is absolutely fantastic.
> 
> If you want to see The Ring, you can find it on my twitter here: https://twitter.com/K_Mermaid_Puke/status/1353227572180606977 and yes, I did start writing this before the Wedding Art, that was a very happy coincidence ;)
> 
> One last note: Liam strikes me as someone who doesn't care one iota if he's a 'good person' so long as he's doing the right thing. Who gets to decide what that is, of course, is left up to him. I tried to talk around this personal headcanon without stating it outright, as it’s less to do with Liam’s stated motivations and more to do with how he functions subconsciously.
> 
> I really hope you liked this! Please leave kudos or a comment telling me what you thought of it :)))


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